


The Long, Lonely Work

by badgerpride89



Series: Afterword [2]
Category: Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Angst, Comic Book Violence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, did i mention noir's world is shitty, no one dies, noir's world is shitty, not the spiders, warning: targeted assassination attempts, warning: vomit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 02:16:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17479334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badgerpride89/pseuds/badgerpride89
Summary: Three months after the collider, Peter "Benjamin" Parker's two lives come crashing together.In which leaps of faith are metaphorical but no less important, especially in a world dominated by distrust and secrets.





	The Long, Lonely Work

Benjamin stands awkwardly just inside the large cathedral, shrouded in deep shadows. He wonders if he should even be here, really. He hadn’t known the dead men well; Chuck and Bobby had been two of his many informants, men whose sins and vices he knew well enough to leverage against their perchance for harassing his clients and against their boss. Still, he feels he owes them something, at least an acknowledgement of their passings. He should perhaps feel something for their grieving widows, for Chuck’s mother, now all alone in the world after her younger son died in the war. Perhaps a faint pity should stir for the people left behind.

Perhaps, but Benjamin has far too many other obligations and loose ends to worry about the charred remains of two families. These men seemingly died in a car wreck and yes, tires blow all the time. They’re also the eighth and ninth, respectively, of his moles who’ve kicked the bucket in the last six weeks. He wishes it could just be coincidence but that many informants that quickly reeks of a targeted purge. Someone knows they and the others were passing along information, that same someone probably knows to whom they were passing information as well.

That’s the crux of the problem: which one did they snitch on? Spider-Man or Peter Benjamin Parker? He’d say he prefers they named Spider-Man because Spider-Man can do things Benjamin can only dream of and take the fight straight to the top. But Spider-Man has almost as much baggage as his alter ego, a fact which Benjamin has tried and failed to change multiple times over the years. Spider-Man protects the Big Apple from political, mob, and corporate excesses, often overlapping, but everyone’s learned by now he has his neighborhoods and those include the most vulnerable in the city. Try as he might to shift patrols or change focus, he’s always pulled back; one is always more comfortable on home turf.

Spider-Man has his neighborhoods; Benjamin has the people within, his neighbors, customers, and friends. With his typewriter, he’s nearly as big a menace to organized corruption as Spider-Man is but oh so much more vulnerable, especially with his perchance of landing coppers and thugs in prison for the rest of their natural lives. He’s hyper aware of his weakness. It itches, in the back of his brain, the drive to delve deeper into this purge and take the perps down as quickly as possible. His long practiced patience stills him, reminds him that just because his neighborhoods have an unspoken agreement to keep quiet about the fact that Benjamin Parker is the Spider, the rest of the world hasn’t yet made that connection. And really shouldn’t.

He still has people to lose.

A lighter hand takes his, weaves their fingers together. Frederick is dressed to the nines in complementary shades of white. It is a peculiar habit of his left over from his days as a petty thief on the run, dressing so finely for what amounts to a look and leave, but there's an unusually sympathetic glint in his eyes. Of everyone, he alone has an inkling of just how much Benjamin's patience costs and when the bills come due. Hands clasped, he guides Benjamin out of the church and into the gloomy, overcast, chalk gray day. It's almost enough to make Benjamin miss that other world, with its bright days and vibrant, saturated landscape. Almost, because the phantom migraines and strained eyes still haunt him - he’d been outta commission recovering and buried under as much darkness as he could muster for two days. Good man that he is, Frederick had left him be, even through Benjamin's attitude shifts and many thoughtful silences since.

He still hasn't told him.

It's not that Frederick wouldn't believe him, he has plenty of proof, it's that Benjamin’s not ready to tell the story yet. And Frederick seems to understand that; he doesn't push on that front. Benjamin’s whole world has shifted - other worlds exist, other spiders who, while not the same, reflect a sharp, jagged piece of himself no one else really can. Other worlds where rules and logic he takes for granted don't exist - worlds where the good guys seem to have a chance. He fights and fights every day, makes the choice to do so, because he has the ability to hold power accountable. It's his duty. At the same time, it is never ending, exhausting, and overwhelming. Yet...

He’s softer now- Peni has a way breaking through even the thickest layer of his hardened, self-protective apathy- less willing to take out the criminal element the quick and dirty way. He’s more willing to smile. It’s dim of him but damn it if he doesn’t have a little flicker of hope stubbornly fed and tended to by those other spiders. Perhaps one day, he’ll return the favor. His paranoia’s a stubborn mule; he hasn’t told them much about himself beyond the case of the week or the biology questions Miguel peppers him with every few days. Logically, it’s lame-brained; they can’t get at him for the most part. At the same time, what does he really know about them? Sure, they saved the multiverse together. Swell. But that doesn’t mean he knows who they are as people, their true thoughts and feelings- they call each other regularly enough but they don’t _talk._ Not about the big things. Not that Benjamin has enough courage to bring those topics up himself.

Frederick’s hand squeezes his. “Hey, don’t go away now,” he says lightly.

Benjamin raises an eyebrow and Frederick chuckles, breaking their grip. “You’ve got your turtle face on. I’d rather not have to pull your miserable keister outta some half-baked scheme. Again.”

“That was one time.”

“Not by my watch, pal. You’re at a three-save deficit, Spider.”

“Which of us can actually do math here?” He snarks.

“And which of us handles dough? I know debts and savings, Parker.”

“I _beg_ your pardon, good sir.”

Frederick sniffs. “You’re forgiven. Now, what’re you thinking?”

Benjamin sighs. “How much I want to dust off Osborn, maybe Russell and Fisk while I’m at it. I’m thinking a short walk off a tall building ought to do it. Or leave ‘em dangling over the side ‘til the webs disintegrate. I'm not picky.” It would be so easy. Osborn’s death would cripple his enterprise for years and force the son to decide once and for all where he stands.

“Bit homicidal for you nowadays.” Frederick sounds unphased by his declaration.

“They’ve kicked off nine people of my people in six weeks,” Benjamin growls, then breathes deeply before continuing. “They’re coming after me and I don’t know which direction they’re coming from. I…”

Frederick nods thoughtfully. “You break Stacy to the side of the angels yet?”

“He’s on the straight and narrow for now. Why?”

“‘Cause he reads the papers just like everyone else,” Frederick replies as they cross the street shoulder to shoulder. An amused smile tugs at his lips. “You learn where Goblin stashes the papers?”

Benjamin stops. Frederick turns back after a step or two. Benjamin grabs his upper arm and drags him into the shadows beside Lee’s corner store.

“No,” Benjamin orders.

Frederick’s smile drops not an inch, damn him. “We’re a team, Spider. Both of us,” he says then pointedly steps further into Benjamin’s space. “Retrieval’s my wheelhouse. Consider it a public service, getting that stuff out in open where anyone can see it.”

Terror burns through his carefully cultivated numbness.

“Then I’m coming with you,” he breathes into Frederick’s ear.

Frederick raises an eyebrow. “And if you’re spotted? You ain’t the exactly the subtle type. Cat and Spider break in, next day Parker’s blowin’ the whistle on whatever pretty little tidbits Osborn’s got stashed away? You haven’t gone after him yet for good reason.”

“I…”

Frederick places a hand on his cheek and Benjamin leans into it. “My life, my choices, Spider. You know that.”

Benjamin holds his gaze for a long minute. He’s the fighter, the sharpshooter, the bright, blazing target; Frederick’s right that he’d only be a liability in a break and enter they want to keep quiet. Frederick’s committed and Benjamin has never been able to talk him out of anything. They’re very different people, black and white, really, but Frederick’s just as unable to stand on the sidewalk while other people are hurt as Benjamin. It’s what’s kept them together all these years.

The rain comes down in sheets; it feels like it always does whenever they’re about to make some monumental decision.

He clasps the hand on his cheek. “I’ll have the reflex ready when you get back. Should only take a few hours to copy the lot.”

“Aw, you really know how to show a fella a good time,” Frederick drawls, his face bright in the dark downpour and low-lit store signs nearby.

“I mean it; get in, get the docs, make the copies, return ‘em. I'd like a day or two before they realize what happened.”

“I have it handled. Trust me.”

He does. That's part of the problem.

* * *

That evening on the biweekly hopper call, he keeps quiet about the case. They will hate him, he knows, if they learn just how far this has spiraled out of his control. They will scold him for not coming to them and unburdening himself, at least a little. But he can’t take the condemnation he knows he deserves if he tells them who Frederick is, _what_ he is, and what Benjamin’s allowing him to walk into alone.

He can’t tell which reaction will be worst.

* * *

Two nights later, Benjamin is out on patrol. It's a short night, more for show than anything. Should the police discover the break in, he'd rather have witnesses who will place the Spider across town at the same time. He gets enough harassment from them, thank you very much.

By the time he returns home, through the fire escape on the alley side of the building, Frederick is already there, a mass of midnight black against the swirling coal dark shadows. Tuned as his sight is to different grays and blacks, Frederick is not obscured much by the lack of light. He's leaning against Benjamin's desk, tense but high off the rush of the job. The cat that caught the canary. Benjamin breathes. If he's injured, it's not serious and he certainly wasn’t spotted. Beneath them, the bar’s jazz act plays a low, gentle tune, Mary Jane’s lyrics muffled by the buzzing chatter and clanging glasses.

They remove their masks at the same time and Benjamin turns on the desk lamp. Frederick is mostly uninjured but there’s an alarmingly large taupe stain on the midsection of his black shirt, a tear, and a touch of pearl skin. He glances down at himself,at Benjamin’s growing concern and heads the question off, “Relax, Spider. Got caught in a knife fight on the way back, most of it’s that other guy’s. And no, I didn’t bleed on the docs, I’m a professional.” He finishes with a joke and produces the papers with a flourish.

Benjamin could not care less.

He opens the rickety desk’s bottom drawer and pulls out the first aid kit. Frederick sighs but submits, stripping to his undershirt without his usual deft grace. The cut is long and thin and thankfully shallow. He hisses when Benjamin applies the medicinal alcohol and lights himself a cigarette from his coat pocket. The bleeding’s stopped but Benjamin puts a bandage on the gash nonetheless.

Business taken care of, they silently start on the papers themselves. True to his reputation, Frederick’s nabbed about eighty pages and at a glance, they’re all equally condemning. Benjamin’s moles may have died but damn if they didn’t give him the motherlode. The copy process is slow, the reflex’s photosensitive paper needs just the right amount of light exposure and pressing to give up the goods without ruining the originals. Fortunately, Benjamin is an old hat at the process; he learned back in his teens when Aunt May would print her pamphlets. He’d helped her whenever she let him right up to her dying day four months ago - Osborn’s first shot across across the bow, though he hadn’t known it at the time.

The hours pass, long and slow, as cigar smoke joins a chain of cigarettes and etching dye. The sounds below quiet and still until only the hum of the neon lights outside interrupts their work.  It’s oddly domestic, the way they move around and anticipate each other. One by one, the copies are stacked on Benjamin’s desk, piece after piece of evidence that will hopefully keep Osborn tied in knots for years to come.

It’s coming on four am when they break, the originals back in their proper order and looking like a dream. Frederick dresses and pulls Benjamin into a slow, soft kiss. His breath is rank and his lips chapped. Benjamin savors every second. They part, foreheads touching.

“I’ll see you, Benjamin.” Low and gentle, the words soothe Benjamin’s tension.

“Hurry back,” he says as Frederick takes the papers and puts his mask back on.

He winks at Benjamin. “Don’t wait up on my account.”

They both know he will.

* * *

He falls asleep around six, after Frederick calls and reports the all clear. He’s not back when Benjamin leaves for the newspaper, their documents safely under lock and key. He tries not to worry too much; Frederick takes his time after a job before returning to the bar. To assuage his paranoia, Benjamin calls the bar on his lunch break. Frederick suggests meeting him after work, Benjamin accepts.

He clocks out at five on the dot. He exits the building, peering through the crowded streets for Frederick.

Several things happen at once.

His spider-sense goes bananas.

He spots Frederick crossing the street amid a group of pedestrians, his own gaze on high alert.

A gunshot.

A loud pop.

A screech and squeal as a cab swerves uncontrollably into the crowd.

A split second stretches into one long moment as Frederick shoves people back.

A sickening crunch as the cab slams into him and side-swipes two others.

Screams. So many screams.

A masked man reenters the fifth story of a building down the street.

Benjamin stands there, frozen.

It's the sirens that spur Benjamin into action. Screeching, grating on his nerves finally breaks through. He stumbles into the crowd, his briefcase lost behind him. The cab's wheels are still spinning helplessly in the air like the legs of an overturned turtle. The wheel axle of the back right one is still smoking. People are already trying to pull the passengers and driver out of the damn thing. As for the people hit…

It’s a nightmare.

* * *

One day he’ll remember how he got to the hospital and what he found at the crash beyond a general sense of his world freezing and falling around him. Right now, though, he’s arguing with the charge nurse.

“I told you, he hasn’t got any family,” he snarls at her. “The answer ain’t gonna change. If you need someone to speak for him, I’m the one you want.”

The nurse stares him down. He should be ready to rip into her but he can’t feel anything beyond cold terror. It’s so real he’s shaking like a leaf and his spider-sense is still going off. Her colleague approaches. He vaguely feels like he should recognize Nurse Davis from somewhere.

She whispers something to her colleague, who walks off in a huff. She then gives Benjamin a somewhat friendly smile. “Sir, I’m afraid you’re going to have to come back tomorrow morning. Visiting hours are over now.”

“And what about that?!” He gestures wildly at the retreating nurse.

She remains calm. “Sir, the doctors will make whatever decisions are necessary,” she tries to place a hand on his arm but he snatches it away. She gives him another look over and lowers her voice, “He is badly hurt but he will survive. You’ll be able to see him tomorrow morning when we open.”

He glares at her, fully intent on sneaking back in and finding Frederick himself.

“And if anyone is trying to sneak, he’s at the main ICU ward with police by his bed,” she says pointedly.

So no windows, an open ward, and guards. Dammit. He clenches his fists and breaks eye contact. “Which ones?” he whispers.

“Franks and Cobb. I know which ones to keep out of my ward, sir.”

He tries to muster some sheepishness at her tone but can’t. She pats his shoulder and gently says, “Seven a.m. He’ll need things for a long stay, understand?”

He nods.

“I know it’s hard. I’m sorry.” She sounds completely genuine.

He takes a jerky step backwards and slowly, step by agonizing step, he makes his way home. The bar’s neon lights glare at him mockingly, the Black Cat’s capital c buzzing on and off intermittently. He slams the door open and lets it slam closed with a satisfying thunk. At first, none of the workers do more than notice - they’re too used to angry customers and drunks looking to start trouble to do more.

At first.

“Ben? What the hell?” Mary Jane demands as she closes in. She’s in her regular clothes, the back of Benjamin’s brain notes. Damn it must be late. He follows her gaze down his hands and torso. He is covered in grease, oil, grime, and blood. A lot of blood.

Oh.

He’s gonna puke.

“Yeah, ‘oh.’ What happened? Ben?” He shoves her out of the way and crosses to the bar in three long strides. He barely gets his head over the sink before he meets his lunch again. There’s a concerned buzz hovering over him, his face burning and numb at the same time. He shakes off the hands that come close, gasping and shaking. The noise quiets, save for Mary Jane’s authoritative tone. When he finally looks up again, the bar’s cleared out, save the six remaining employees.

He manages a deep breath as Robertson puts a shot under his nose. He downs it without a second thought. He can’t look at anyone so he stares down the wooden bar and the sick Robertson’s washing down the drain. It hits him, then. They’ve _seen_ him, they know something set him off. God, no, he’s really not supposed to do any of this.

“Hardy?” Mary Jane asks.

“Alive,” he chokes out.

Someone sighs, someone mutters ‘thank heavens’, another breathes ‘shit.’

“Go get cleaned up,” Mary Jane advises. “We’ll close up shop.”

Benjamin freezes for a minute, his throat locked. “Be careful,” he manages slowly, “Prowler.”

A new round of cursing goes up before Mary Jane shushes them. “We will be. At least it’s not one of Fisk’s men,” she tries to joke but it falls flat. Prowler only attacks the specific person Osborn orders. Fisk’s men don’t have that kind of restraint.

“Upstairs, Parker, you look like shit,” Robertson orders.

Regaining a modicum of self-control, Benjamin trudges through the utility door and up the stairs. The second story’s small, on the left is his PI office and the right the apartment. He’s definitely not going in there yet. He unlocks the office and enters. The place is distressingly normal - no one’s broken in, absolutely nothing’s out of place from this morning. He slams the door then kicks the desk hard enough that it skids and two of the drawers slide out, their lighter contents landing on the floor.

The hopper tumbles to the ground with a loud clang. It beeps and suddenly there’s a dial tone and six confused voices clamoring for attention. Because of course. Benjamin really can’t deal with this right now.

The holo-dingus pops up and Peni’s face lights up the room with an eerie, unnatural glow. She looks around the room but her eyes aren’t made for the darkness of his world.

“Benjamin? Benjamin? Did you mean to call us? I think you hit the Most Recent call settings. Benjamin?” Her pitch rises in concern every second he doesn’t respond.

“Hey, Benny boy,” Porker calls, “I can see your shoes. Get over here, would you, what’s going on? You okay?”

“It was probably an accident,” Miguel drawls then yawns. “Just cut the feed, Peni.”

“Come on, Benjamin, please,” Peni presses.

“Guys, back off a little,” Peter says.

“Hey, talk to us, pal.”

The noise, the unnatural colors, the pounding in his head, it’s all too much.

“God, just stop your spitting for once!” he yells.

Silence blissfully, mercifully, engulfs him, broken only by his gasps for air. His brain stays stuck, frozen in place. The rest of him, meanwhile, decides it can’t hold his weight up anymore and he collapses in a heap, his face angled at the ground while his arms decide whether they’ll support him.

Swears he’s never heard surround him. Peni again demands a status update, someone asks the kids to hang up which turns into a huge argument, Porker’s calling his name again and again, he’s going numb all over-

“Guys, cut it out,” Peter demands, more forcefully than Benjamin’s ever heard him, save for his self-sacrificial spiel back in Miles’ world, “He’ll talk when he can.”

Benjamin laughs. It quickly turns hysterical. Because, no, he can’t talk about it, Parker, he’s already done too much damage this side of the hopper, hell, he doesn’t even have a word to describe what’s happening, ‘I would spend the rest of my life with him if I could but it's just gonna get him killed’ just doesn’t translate to anything he can say, he can’t take any more condemnation on top of his own; talking and hoping and these damn spiders have just crushed-

“You think I’m gonna spill ta any of you, especially some washed up loser with a death wish who can’t even get his own damn life together?!? Go climb a tree, Parker.”

That gums them up.

“Who is it?” Gwen asks, her voice carefully free of judgement.

Benjamin flinches. Because that’s the million dollar question, isn’t it. He can’t say, can’t expose himself any more. He cannot deal with this or them. He hurts too much already and this...He’s like a drowning man, here, and he can’t trust the damn life ring to not be yanked away. But he can’t hang up either.

It’s not that they haven’t lost or hurt people; every one of their stories is littered with the bodies of loved ones they could not save. But this is different, not an uncle or a parent, someone who’d protected them and who could not be protected in turn. This is different because he can’t name who, exactly, Frederick is, _what_ he is, without it all going sideways. He loves them, damn it, and he really can’t handle it if they can’t love him back.

No one’s said another word. He chances a glance. They’re all still there, still waiting. No one’s hung up yet. Gwen’s sad blue (not really blue, not the shade on the rubix cube, how could these people have so many colors and so few words for them?) eyes watch him intently.

“Frederick Hardy.” The words tumble out of his mouth, like they’re afraid he’d snatch them right back in. Which he would if he could, rather than leave them dangling in the dark and quiet of his office. He refuses to elaborate. That...really says it all, doesn’t it?

But, they don’t hate him? Miguel’s eyes are narrow, like he’s trying to match the name with someone he knows, Peni’s covered her mouth, tears in her eyes for his pain, Porker’s nodding to himself like a puzzle piece finally slotted into place, Peter’s looking at him like he did the first time their spider sense called like to like, Miles watches a little sheepishly, and Gwen grimaces in pained understanding.

Benjamin thaws.

The tears finally flow.

“Is he alive?” Gwen asks when he quiets a little.

“This time.”

“I’m sorry it happened.”

“Yeah.”

“You need anything?” Miles asks hesitantly. Benjamin just shrugs.

The silence slowly becomes awkward. So, of course Porker swings his hopper around and points at a large television. Without a word, he starts a movie. It’s weird, even by Porker’s standards, and long and meandering and honestly, just what Benjamin needs. After Porker starts the second, he discards his shirt and vest, wiping down his hands during some inane conversation about stealing the Constitution, but otherwise doesn’t move. The kids all fall asleep at some point but no one clicks off. It really shouldn’t help as much as it is.

“Sorry for what I said, Peter,” he whispers around three-thirty in between flicks.

“Nothing I haven’t said to myself,” Peter replies, his voice just as low.

“All the more reason I shouldn’t have said it,” Benjamin apologizes.

“You’re hurting.” It’s not a dismissal but it’s too close for Benjamin.

“So are you.”

“Yeah. Part of the job sometimes.”

“Indeed.”

“So,” Miguel chances changing the subject with a yawn, “got any tips on catching the Black Cat? Yours is a thief too, right? My world’s a lady who’s stolen more genetic formulas and secret programming codes than every other corporate raider alive. Combined.”

Benjamin snorts, wiping the snot off his nose. “Just make it worth her while.”

“What? Bribe her? Are you kidding me? That’s what you did- do?”

“No. Make it worth her while.”

“You suggesting I flirt with her? ‘Cause that’s about as likely as the Kingpin getting out of crime.”

Benjamin smiles weakly, a warmth billowing in his chest. “I said what I said and that innit.”

“Gah, you old-timers, can’t you stop speaking in riddles?”

“Miguel, the movie is beginning,” Porker interrupts, “and it’s one of my favorites so pipe down, will ya?"

“Besides, if you haven’t gotten it by now, no amount of explanation will make a difference,” Peter teases and Porker shushes him.

More hours pass until dawn creeps over the desk and onto the hopper, bright enough the others can finally see him easily. “Time to get a move on, Benny boy. Your man’s gonna need some real food any minute now,” Porker orders as he clicks off the television.

Benjamin nods, he finally feels like he can move, even if his muscles protest each gesture. Peni wakes up, as do Miles and Gwen. “Let us know how it goes, okay?” she demands. “I didn't make these things so you could suffer alone.”

He nods solemnly. He's going to have a lot to make up to her, scaring her this badly.

The others click off and Benjamin stands. A shower's too much hassle but he does wipe the rest of the grime off. It doesn't feel much better. He grabs a paper bag starts dumping things into it - razor, Frederick's favorite shirt, a few books that'll keep him occupied. He heads back into the office and puts the hopper into the locked drawer beside the rubix cube and copies.

* * *

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Frederick weakly calls as Benjamin steps around the police guard and behind the curtain.

Frederick’s a mess but it’s not nearly as bad as his imagination created. He’s in loose-fitted, striped pajamas and propped up by half a dozen pillows. He can see ivory bandages peeking out underneath his shirt, wrapping his ribs and left shoulder. His right leg is in a cast, his fingers taped up and an IV in his hand, and a slew of small cuts and bruises discolor his face.

Benjamin snorts at the bad joke and says, “They must have you on the good stuff.”

Frederick flops an arm at him, “Turns out morphine’s good for something, who’d’ve thought, right?”

Benjamin sets the bag on the small table beside him. “You poor thing.”

“And proud of it,” Frederick retorts then, with little difficulty, pulls his focus together. “You get ‘im yet?”

Benjamin shakes his head then whispers, “Don’t worry, by this time tomorrow, keeping the Prowler alive will be Stacy’s job.”

“Better his than mine,” Frederick says flippantly, though it’s belied by his wince at the thought of what a colored man taking out Osborn’s targets could bring to their neighborhoods and the man himself.

Benjamin pulls out the books and begins stacking them within easy arm reach. “They say how long you’re here?”

“A week, ten days on the outside,” Frederick replies breathlessly, gesturing for one of the books. “Think they wanna make sure I’m not gonna catch pneumonia and die two steps outside. That’s a joke, by the way, the dying, not the pneumonia.”

Benjamin loosens his grip on the abused bag. He hands Frederick a book. “You will be fine?”

“Give or take a few months. Gonna have to watch your step ‘til then, Benjamin.”

“Believe me, I know.”

They go quiet for a minute as Frederick thumbs through a few well-worn pages, trying to focus on the words in front of him.

It’s now or never.

Benjamin pulls the rubix cube from his pocket and sits on the side of the bed. Frederick’s eyes go wide and he blinks several times. “That’s...really there, right?”

“Yes,” Benjamin replies as Frederick reaches for it. “I’m told it’s a puzzle. The goal is to get all pieces of the same shade on each side.”

Frederick fiddles with the thing like it’s going to bite him, like he can’t believe it’s real even though he’s holding and playing with it. “And the person who told you this…”

Benjamin takes a deep breath. “Once upon a time, not very long ago…”

He tells him everything. Frederick listens with rapt attention, never once interrupting. Benjamin tells him of different worlds, of different heroes and villains. Of a young, brave boy, an ingenious girl and her robot, a fighter with a dancer’s grace, a man who’d given up hope, a pig, and a brawler. Of a place where good fights back and wins, though still at a price. He tells it all.

“Hypothetically,” Frederick says lowly, mindful of their guards a scant few feet away, “if these people were real, I’d like to meet ‘em. We could compare notes on rescuing lost little spiders.”

Benjamin laughs, full and warm for the first time in a long time. “Somehow I don’t think we have a choice in that matter.”

“Good,” Frederick says then hands the cube over. “Here, it’s a math problem.”

Benjamin raises an eyebrow.

Frederick rolls his eyes and breathes shallowly. “Don’t make me laugh,” he says, “It’s some kind of moving, sequential algorithm. Past the cross on the first side, I ain’t gonna get it.”

Benjamin looks it over again and sees what he’s talking about. The ‘white’ center, because that color is not white, it’s cream, has its fellow cream pieces arranged in a cross-like pattern. Interesting.

There are still things to talk about, changes they'll have to hammer out sometime without an audience.

But.

They sit together for the next hour until he has to leave for work. 

The finished cube sits comfortably in his pocket.


End file.
